Book Read Free

Frostborn: The Broken Mage

Page 13

by Jonathan Moeller


  Morigna.

  Ridmark dropped his staff and sprinted forward, both hands coiling around the axe’s haft. The basilisk tensed before the entrance to the furnace, ready to spring on someone inside. Ridmark ran faster and threw himself forward, raising the axe over his head. At the last moment the basilisk turned as it sensed his presence, and its long, slender tail stabbed forward. The stinger struck Ridmark in the chest, and a bolt of pain shot through him. He wondered if it had penetrated the dark elven armor he wore beneath his jerkin.

  But it did not slow him, and he buried the axe in the basilisk’s skull. The basilisk went into a mad spasm, its claws raking at the floor, its tail snapping back and forth in fury. Ridmark hit the side of the doorway, bounced off, and landed hard on the floor. For a moment he could not move as the breath exploded from his lungs, and another wave of pain went through his chest and injured shoulder. At last he managed sat up as Morigna ran to his side, purple fire flickering around her free hand as she started a spell.

  The basilisk thrashed once and then went limp, Ridmark’s axe still jutting from its skull.

  Ridmark let out a long, aching breath and got to his feet.

  “It stung you,” said Morigna, her voice tight.

  “Aye,” said Ridmark. “Could you get a little more light?”

  She nodded in the gloom and lifted her hand, a sphere of pale blue light shimmering into existence over her palm. Ridmark tugged aside his jerkin and looked at the plates of blue dark elven steel. He felt a terrible bruise forming across his chest, but the basilisk’s stinger had failed to penetrate the armor.

  “I do not believe it reached your flesh,” said Morigna.

  “I suppose if it had poisoned me I would have died by now,” said Ridmark. He took a deep breath, ignoring the ache in his chest. “I…am glad you are safe. Why did you charge off like that?”

  “Because it would have killed me if I had stayed there,” said Morigna. “And you are hardly one to judge, Ridmark Arban. You are not the only one who can indulge in reckless madness from time to time.”

  “I suppose not,” said Ridmark. He tugged his axe free from the basilisk’s skull. It came free with a crackling sound, yellow slime dripping from the blade. “How did you keep it from petrifying you? I was sure I would find your statue.”

  She did not answer for a moment. “I ran faster, that is all. Evidently its power only operates in a certain range.”

  Ridmark was certain that wasn’t the entire truth, that something else had happened. Perhaps she had resorted to the use of her stolen dark magic again. This wasn’t the time to deal with it, though.

  “Come on,” said Ridmark. He found where his staff had rolled to a stop against a cart and picked it up. “The dvargir were fleeing, but I want to rejoin the others as soon as possible. Sooner or later the dvargir will come after us again.”

  “Doubtful,” said Morigna with a scornful laugh. “They are not so brave without their pets, and seeing Antenora cook their mzrokar likely stole away their courage.”

  “It was an impressive sight,” said Ridmark, walking around one of the blast furnaces.

  “An amazingly foul odor, though,” said Morigna. “I suspect the surviving dvargir will flee straight back to Khaldurmar. Mostly they were common soldiers, and they will blame the failure upon Rzorgar, and return to their duties with Great House Mlurzar.” She hesitated. “I am…glad you are uninjured. When the basilisk stung you, I thought…”

  He leaned his staff against the wall of the nearest blast furnace, reached over, and squeezed her hand. The fiery light from the flows of lava did not illuminate much, but he did see the brief smile flicker over her face.

  “I am glad you are safe, too,” said Ridmark.

  “As safe as one can be, anyway,” said Morigna, “while standing in a dwarven ruin filled with creatures that want to kill us.”

  “True,” said Ridmark, releasing her hand and recovering his staff. “Then let’s find Dragonfall and get out of here.”

  She let out a tired little laugh. “You always make these things sound so easy.”

  Ridmark had lost track of his location in the maze of domed blast furnaces and debris, but the light (and stench) from the burning mzrokar made it easy to find his way back to the others. Dead dvargir lay scattered across the floor, and Calliande stood next to Kharlacht, white light glimmering from her fingers as she cast healing spells. Many of the Magistri had the power to heal, but Calliande was the best healer Ridmark had ever encountered. A Magistria had to endure the pain of a wound to heal it, but Calliande never flinched, never complained.

  “The basilisk,” said Kharlacht.

  “Dead,” said Ridmark. One of the dead dvargir had a cloak, and he cleaned the yellow slime from his axe and returned the weapon to his belt. “An axe to the head does not kill everything, but apparently it will kill basilisks.”

  Calliande nodded and made a gesture, and the pale light of her ward vanished. She crossed over, put her hand on Ridmark’s forehead, and nodded to herself. More light flashed around her hands, and she winced a little, and the pain of Ridmark’s injuries vanished as her magic healed them.

  “Thank you,” said Ridmark.

  Calliande took a deep breath. “Morigna. Any wounds?”

  “No,” said Morigna. “It was a close thing, though. If Ridmark had not arrived…”

  “Let’s not linger here,” said Ridmark. “Caius?”

  The dwarven friar straightened up, scraping a few flecks of bloody flesh from the head of his mace. “If that map is accurate, the entrance to the mine levels should be at the other end of the Forge Quarter. We’ll know it when we see it.”

  “How?” said Jager.

  “Pulleys and carts and rubble and such,” said Caius. “It’s exceptionally difficult to dig a hole into the heart of a mountain, and many tools are required.”

  “Clearly your business ventures never included a mine,” said Arandar.

  “Not yet,” said Jager, “though if we escape from here, I may have to diversify my…”

  “Gray Knight!” said Antenora. “Enemies come!”

  Ridmark spun as Antenora pointed her staff towards the ramp leading back up to the Goldsmiths’ Market.

  He didn’t see anything.

  “Ridmark!” said Mara. “I see them too! Urvaalgs!”

  Antenora thrust her staff, a ball of flame leaping from its end and hurtling towards the archway. It shot across the foundry chamber, struck the floor, and exploded in a billowing snarl of fire. As it did, shapes appeared in the midst of the flames, rolling across the floor with snarls of rage. The air in front of the fire rippled, and resolved into a dozen dark, hunched shapes that moved with terrific speed despite their misshapen limbs. The creatures looked like a grotesque mixture of wolf and ape, their fur hanging in greasy black ropes, their twisted limbs knotted with muscle, their eyes shining like hot coals. The creatures were urvaalgs, the malicious war beasts of the dark elves of old.

  Which meant that the Traveler had entered Khald Azalar, and his scouts had found them.

  “Defend yourselves!” said Ridmark, taking his staff in both hands as the urvaalgs raced towards them.

  Chapter 9: An Extended Family

  The urvaalgs bounded across the floor, and Ridmark attacked.

  He dashed at the nearest urvaalg and swung his staff, aiming for the creature’s head. The urvaalg made no effort to dodge. Weapons of steel and wood could not harm urvaalgs. Only the spells of the Magistri and the blades of the Swordbearers could kill an urvaalg, so the beast had no reason at all to dodge Ridmark’s staff.

  The high elven archmage Ardrhythain had carried the staff for centuries, altering its nature, so when the end of Ridmark’s staff struck the urvaalg’s head, it landed with enough force to shatter the urvaalg’s jaw, to send broken fangs tumbling to the ground with a sound like clay jars clanking together. The urvaalg let out a furious snarl of pain and rage, its claws scraping against the floor, and Ridmark crushed the side
of its head with a second blow.

  Gavin and Arandar attacked, and their soulblades proved deadly effective against the urvaalgs. The swords shone with white light, flames dancing at their edges, and the enchanted swords cleaved into the urvaalgs’ flesh and bone, burning through the dark magic saturating the creatures. Calliande cast a spell, and more white light erupted from her hands to leap to the weapons of the others. Kharlacht’s great sword began to glow, as did Caius’s mace and Mara’s and Jager’s blades, and even Ridmark’s staff began to gleam in his hand.

  An urvaalg reared up before Ridmark, claws reaching for his face. He jabbed the end of his staff into the creature’s belly, and it rocked backwards with a snarl. Before the urvaalg could launch another attack, Ridmark whipped the axe from his belt and swung, plunging the blade into the urvaalg’s neck. The urvaalg shuddered, and Ridmark pulled the axe free and swung again. The spells wrought into the weapon by the dwarven stonescribes held true, and it bit deep into the urvaalg’s corrupted flesh. The urvaalg died, and Ridmark sought another foe.

  Around him the others struggled. Kharlacht cut his way through the urvaalgs, spilling the black slime of their blood upon the floor. Caius crushed skulls with his mace. Jager lured in the urvaalgs, and Mara reappeared behind them, stabbing with her short sword. Morigna flung spells of earth magic, throwing the urvaalgs off balance and allowing the others to land blows.

  They were winning. In the Northerland and the other frontiers of the High Kingdom, a single urvaalg could wipe out an entire freehold with ease. Yet with two Swordbearers, two sorceresses of elemental magic, and a Magistria, Ridmark and his friends carved their way through the urvaalgs. Yet it was not the urvaalgs that concerned Ridmark. The Traveler had far more powerful servants. A pack of urvaalgs was dangerous. A pack of urvaalgs backed by the might of an ursaar would be far more deadly. For that matter, the Traveler’s orcish soldiers, the Anathgrimm, were stronger, tougher, and more disciplined fighters than the Mhorites. If they attacked while Ridmark and the others were fighting the urvaalgs, Ridmark didn’t know if they could win free.

  Best to be long gone by the time the Anathgrimm arrived.

  An urvaalg lunged at him, clawed forelegs reaching for his shoulders, jaws yawning to close around his neck. Ridmark ducked beneath the lunge, dropping his staff and swinging his axe, and the dwarven blade bit into the urvaalg’s rear hind leg. The beast roared in fury as its damaged leg collapsed, and Ridmark rolled back to his feet as the urvaalg struggled to stand, his staff in both hands.

  Three heavy blows to the head later, the urvaalg died. Ridmark yanked his axe from its quivering carcass and turned to face another.

  ###

  Mara flickered in and out of the battle, using her power to cover a dozen yards in an instant, reappearing and disappearing as needed. She could not possibly face an urvaalg in a fight, and so she didn’t even try. Instead she appeared behind the urvaalgs, using her short sword of dark elven steel to hamstring the beasts. Hindered and in pain, they tried to kill her, only for Kharlacht to behead them with a single massive blow of his sword, or for Arandar to bring Heartwarden down in a blaze of white fire.

  From time to time bursts of white fire shot past Mara to strike the charging urvaalgs, the fires chewing into their corrupted flesh. Even while maintaining the spell around the weapons, Calliande still had enough power left to attack the urvaalgs with blasts of killing magic. The magic of the Magistri could not harm living mortals, but it was deadly effective against creatures of dark magic. Calliande had indeed grown stronger since leaving Urd Morlemoch. To Mara’s Sight, the magic of the Well blazed around Calliande like a storm, and the Magistria wielded it with precision. Mara suspected that Calliande was already one of the most powerful Magistri in Andomhaim, and wondered how much stronger she would become with the magic of the Keeper at her command.

  Morigna flung spells of earth magic, knocking the urvaalgs over. Mara’s Sight saw the dark magic simmering within Morigna, like boiling water under a pot’s lid, but Morigna kept it under control. Antenora stood next to her, fires crackling around her staff, but the combatants were tangled so close together that she dared not unleash her furious powers.

  Mara traveled to the far edge of the battle, trying to get a better look at the fighting. A dozen urvaalgs had gone down, but a score more still milled around her friends, trying to overwhelm them. That seemed odd. Most likely this pack of urvaalgs had been sent to scout, seeking either foes or the way to Dragonfall. So why hadn’t they retreated once they had found enemies?

  Unless…

  Mara frowned.

  Unless the urvaalgs were only a distraction.

  Something rattled behind her.

  She threw herself forward, ducking as a barbed tail whipped over her head.

  Mara came back to her feet as the creature stalked after her. It was about her own height, gaunt and spindly, a peculiar combination of a twisted ape and a spiny lizard with black scales. Its eyes burned like red coals, and spines jutted from its limbs and back and tail. Despite its ungainly appearance, the creature moved with liquid grace, its barbed tail waving like a serpent preparing to strike.

  The creature was an urhaalgar, yet another of the dark elves’ minions. The urvaalgs and the ursaars were war beasts, clever and vicious, but still animals. The urhaalgars had minds of their own, and the dark elves used them as scouts and assassins.

  Likely the urhaalgar heard the Traveler’s song thundering inside its head, just as Mara did. Unlike Mara, the urhaalgar had no choice but to obey that song.

  “The traitor,” hissed the urhaalgar in the dark elven tongue. “The traitor to our god. He is your father, but you disobeyed him.”

  “Well,” said Mara, watching the creature, “you had better do something about that, hadn’t you?”

  The urhaalgar’s tail shot forward. It fired several poisoned spines from its tail, almost like a crossbowman loosing bolts. Mara had anticipated the attack, and she ducked under the barbs, calling upon her power as she did so.

  She reappeared behind the urhaalgar, stabbing with her short sword. The steel of the dark elves sliced into the creature’s heart. The urhaalgar went rigid, and Mara jumped away before it could strike. The creature collapsed to the stone floor with one final spasm, its limbs flopping into the sprawl of death.

  Mara looked around. Urhaalgars preferred to attack in groups. They could also fling those poisoned spines from a considerable distance. Her eyes roamed back and forth, looking over the melee. She knew how to assassinate people, and if she wanted to kill someone from stealth…

  There!

  A dozen urhaalgars crept along the domed top of one of the blast furnaces overlooking the battle. Mara drew on the fire within her, on her own song that stood in defiance of her father’s power, and traveled to the apex of the dome in the blink of an eye. The urhaalgars whirled in alarm, spines coming up to kill her, and Mara saw Antenora standing below.

  “Antenora!” she shouted. “Up here!”

  The urhaalgars hurried to strike, and Mara flung herself from the top of the dome. Blue fire swallowed her, and she reappeared next to Morigna and Antenora, catching her balance. Morigna looked at her in surprise, but Antenora had already thrust her staff, a fist-sized ball of fire leaping from its end.

  The ball struck the top of the blast furnace and exploded, and for a moment the furnace blazed as it must have in the days of Khald Azalar’s power. A chorus of horrified screams erupted from the furnace, and a half-dozen urhaalgars tumbled backwards, their limbs wreathed in flame. Another two tumbled from the front of the blast furnace, thrashing and screaming, and Jager darted forward and put them out of their misery. Mara looked for the remaining urhaalgars, and saw twisted, blackened shapes lying atop the dome.

  “Good shot,” said Mara, breathing hard as Jager ran to join her.

  “My form of magic seems to be rare upon this world,” said Antenora, her staff starting to crackle with fresh flames. “Very few creatures seem to have any def
ense against it.”

  Jager snorted. “It’s hard to defend from a bloody giant fireball.”

  Mara took a deep breath and turned back to the fighting, preparing to attack again, but the urvaalgs were retreating. A score of the beasts lay slain across the floor, hewed by sword and axe and crushed by mace, and the rest fled back towards the exit.

  To meet the Anathgrimm orcs hastening from the tunnel.

  Mara grimaced and looked to see what Ridmark would do next.

  ###

  Ridmark gripped his staff as the Anathgrimm warriors marched from the tunnel.

  A lot of Anathgrimm warriors.

  “Get ready to run,” he said to the others. “Morigna, Antenora. If you can work up a distraction, that would be welcome.”

  The Anathgrimm looked as if they wore masks of black bone over their face and tusks and scalps, but Ridmark knew that those bones grew from the mutated orcs’ skeletons, a result of the Traveler’s manipulations with dark magic over the generations. More dense spikes of black bones rose from the orcs’ shoulders and elbows and forearms. The Anathgrimm wore gleaming steel chain mail of high quality, and carried swords and shields of equal craftsmanship.

  “We should run,” said Kharlacht. “Now. There are at least a hundred of them, and likely more coming behind. If we stay we shall be quickly overwhelmed.”

  “Not yet,” said Ridmark “The surviving urvaalgs haven’t retreated. I suspect that they’ve just circled around the blast furnaces, and are waiting to ambush us when we try to flee. We’ll need to cut our way out. Or create a massive distraction.” He looked around, a plan coming together in his mind. His eyes roved over the blast furnaces. Some of them had been damaged, and he needed one that had been damaged just…

  “Gray Knight!”

  One of the Anathgrimm stepped forward. With the bone masks, Ridmark had a hard time telling the individual Anathgrimm warriors apart, but this warrior was taller and stronger than the others. Unlike his fellows, the warrior did not bear a shield upon his left arm, but instead the fingers of his left hand crackled with ghostly blue fire.

 

‹ Prev